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I tell ye, banks of Krumley,


'T is not your sunny days That set your meadows up and down With blossoms all ablaze.

The flowers that love her crowd to bloom
Along her trodden ways.

O dim and dewy Krumley,
'T is not your birds at all
That make the air one warble
From rainy spring to fall.
They only mock the sweeter songs
That from her sweet lips fall.

O bold, bold winds of Krumley,

Do ye mean my heart to break,
So light ye lift her yellow hair,
So lightly kiss her cheek?

O flower and bird, O wave and wind,
Ye mean my heart to break!

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Sang in the wild insanity of glee;

And seemed, in the same lays, Calling his mate and uttering songs of pre.

The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing;
The plain bee, busy with her housekeep-
Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing,
As if she understood
That, with contentment, labor was a good.

To the Creator lift a smiling face,
I saw each creature, in his own best place,
Praising continually his wondrous grace;
As if the best of all

Life's countless blessings was to live at all!

So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through,

I went home softly, through the falling dew,

Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm.

While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned,

Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned,

The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned;

And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush!


ONE Sweetly welcome thought,
Comes to me o'er and o'er;

I'm nearer home to-day

Than I've ever been before;

Nearer my Father's house

Where the many mansions be; Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the Jasper Sea;

Nearer that bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down, — Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown.

But lying dimly between,

Winding down through the night, Lies the dark and uncertain stream That leads us at length to the light.

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Feel as I would, were my feet


Even now slipping over the brink, — For it may be I am nearer home, Nearer now, than I think!


O LAND, of every land the best, —
O Land, whose glory shall increase;
Now in your whitest raiment drest

For the great festival of peace:

Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love.

On mountain high, in valley low,
Set Freedom's living fires to burn;
Until the midnight sky shall show

A redder glory than the morn.

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track;

You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back!

And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land.

Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel,

Paces his everlasting round.

Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb.


Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers;

They fought to give us peace, and lo! They gained a better peace than ours.



O HAPPY, happy maid,

In the year of war and death

She wears no sorrow!

By her face so young and fair,

By the happy wreath

That rules her happy hair,

She might be a bride to-morrow!
She sits and sings within her moonlit

Her moonlit bower in rosy June,
Yet al, her bridal breath,
Like fragrance from some sweet night-
blowing flower,

Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune!

She sings no song of love's despair,
She sings no lover lowly laid,

No fond peculiar grief

Has ever touched or bud or leaf

Of her unblighted spring.

She sings because she needs must sing;
She sings the sorrow of the air
Whereof her voice is made.
That night in Britain howsoe'er
On any chords the fingers strayed
They gave the notes of care.
A dim sad legend old
Long since in some pale shade
Of some far twilight told,
She knows not when or where,
She sings, with trembling hand on trem.
bling lute-strings laid :-

The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,

"O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,

His belted jewels shine!

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,

Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood:
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,

"T is not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!



COMES Something down with eventide,
Beside the sunset's golden bars,
Beside the floating scents, beside
The twinkling shadows of the stars.

Upon the river's rippling face,
Flash after flash the white

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